


Earning One's Wings

by FickleFox



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: .....And it's not entirely made of ice, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brotherly Love, Fluff, Guardian Angels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft With Wings, Mycroft really does have a heart...., Secrets, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Temporary Character Death, Unfinished Business, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-03-13 16:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3388304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FickleFox/pseuds/FickleFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series 3 canon divergence wherein Mycroft's cover is blown whilst undercover in Russia. Still, there is work to be done, and certain heavenly authorities seem to be aware. Thus, he is sent back. Inspired by several things; one being Mark Gatiss's role in Doctor Who Series Three episode 6, titled "The Lazarus Experiment", among other things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He Needs You

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Things, for once, hadn't gone according to plan. Sherlock was safe though. His brother was safe. Headed back to London. 

Mycroft however, was dead. 

The first thing he recalled was the sensation of a bullet penetrating his head. It had hurt. And then it hadn't. The next thing he understood was that it was too bright. Far too bright. The sheer radiance of his surroundings were blinding. 

He was supposed to be there. Supposed to assist his brother with his transition back into his old life. But he wouldn't be. Not now. The Serbians had caught him, and now he was dead. 

No one would ever know though. Not even Sherlock. No. God, it would seem, had something else in mind.... 

Hell. So this was hell. Or was it? Lying on a concrete floor covered in one's own excrement in the middle of a subterranean Serbian cell was decidedly worse than any threat of fire and brimstone. His body had done what it knew to do. He couldn't blame it- couldn't curse the fact that it had betrayed him. He'd died, it had died. That was the natural order of things. The only thing to do now was to get up off the floor so that at least he wasn't lying in it. 

It was then that it occurred to him that he was not dead, but rather...alive in a different sense. God, it would seem, appeared to have played a rather cruel trick upon him. As he rose to his feet, so lifted a pair of ebon wings. Dripping with blood and piss they hung limply from his shoulders; a testimony of what had been done to him. He'd been sent back to finish what he'd begun. 

"There is still work yet to be done, Mycroft Holmes." Came a voice. Disembodied, it was obviously angelic because it certainly wasn't speaking Serbian. Also, it appeared to be coming from nowhere, and yet everywhere at the same time. Mycroft's head spun; searching for it. 

"What is this?!" He ordered. His voice reverberated, echoed by the soft sounds of feathers shifting as his wings rose and flared hotly; dripping filth onto his shoulders.

"I demand answers. Tell me what it is that you are doing."

"You've been sent back to finish what you have begun, Mr. Holmes....." The voice calmly responded. "Your brother- He'll be expecting you." 

" _He needs you..._ " It whispered when Mycroft responded with silence. " _London_ needs you. Therefore," Again a brilliant light shown; blinding Mycroft who threw up his arm only to discover a wing sheltering him instead. 

"Explain." Mycroft uttered. "Explain to me how it is you expect for me to go about this given my current state. Explain to me how you intend for me to--" 

"Hush." 

"I'll do no such thing! Exp-" Mycroft continued speaking, but to no avail. Not a single sound emanated from his rapidly moving lips though again his wings bristled; narrating for him.

"Focus," The voice insisted. "Focus your mind. I know that you are capable, so _do it._ " 

"Focus...." The archangel repeated as he rounded Mycroft; encircling him like a predator stalking its prey. 

Mycroft shut his eyes. 

"Good. Now, will them to hide. Feel them depart. Permit them to fold. There is a space- a gap between where you where and where you are presently located. It is called the ethereal. Feel it. Fold them _into_ it." He commanded. 

Doing as he was instructed, Mycroft willed his wings to fold. He could sense it-the ethereal; tangible, and yet not. Quietly he breathed. In. Out. In; expanding his lungs slowly though they didn't require the oxygen he was partaking of. _Out_ , and a weight lifted from his spine. 

"Good." The voice uttered. "Very good. Now, just so you are aware, you may beckon those anytime you wish- though I have my doubts that you ever will," The archangel smirked. "As for your duties, _well...._ " He drawled. "I think you know what needs to be done." 

Another flash of radiance proceeded the exit of the archangel, though his voice boomed once more. 

"Find him. And save him from himself. _He needs you...._ "


	2. Conversations with Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...Where the canon divergence really begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, and formally, I wish to thank each and every one of you who have read, left comments, or gave me kudos. It means the world to me.  
> Second, I feel the need to add a disclaimer to this chapter, thus I will.  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock, or any of its characters for that matter. Sherlock, Mycroft, Anthea, and the Sherlock series are the sole property of the BBC, and not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.  
> That being said, I would also like to note that this is where our main divergence shall begin. While I cannot decide if this story will carry all the way through series 3 (colliding with it on occasion only to depart quickly there after) it may. I guess we will essentially have to wait and see I suppose.  
> For now, I do hope you enjoy.

Not quite a full week later-though close enough, Mycroft found himself seated in his office beneath the weathered halls of Whitehall. Thus far, he'd gone about his life as though it had never ended. 

It would seem as though six days hadn't mattered in the grand scheme of things. His brother was safe, the few contacts that he maintained, oblivious, and life was generally progressing normally. Because yes, terrorist threats to London were normal to Mycroft Holmes. 

Were it not for the occasional pang at the temple of his skull, or dull throb between the blades of his shoulders, Mycroft could have easily sworn he'd dreamt what had happened to him. If only he could erase the memory, he might believe that it was. 

Pitiably, he could not...

Still, it remained simple enough to dismiss the thought of his life having ended provided he kept himself busy. Thus, busy he kept. 

Currently preoccupying himself with his brother's re-introduction into London, Mycroft focused his eyes on the man in question. Sherlock was still in pain. He could sense it, both literally and figuratively; figuratively in the sense that for some inexplicable reason, he appeared to developed a secondary consciousness. _His back.... _his mind whispered to him. _It's torn._ And it _aches…___

__Fighting a gasp that threatened to be torn from his lungs, Mycroft bit down upon his lip and trained his eyes to the folder lying open-faced in his lap. Rarely did he listen to his own conscience in the first place. To have a secondary one nagging at him was just plain irritating._ _

__" _Moriarty's network; took me two years to dismantle it.._ " _ _

__Mycroft looked up, a hint of pride gleaming in his eyes as he sat back in his chair._ _

__"And you are confident that you have?" He replied cooly._ _

__"The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle." Sherlock stated simply as if he were spouting some mere fact that he'd horded away in his brain._ _

__Mycroft offered a gentle smile. Somehow he cannot help but relieved by his brother's certainty. Genuinely. Perhaps soon he will be removed from the metaphorical hell he's been sent back to._ _

__"You got yourself in deep there....Quite a _scheme!_ " He turns the pages of the folder in his lap slowly; indecisively switching them back and forth. _ _

__"Colossal." Sherlock replies._ _

__"Anyway, you're safe now." He counters with a grin as he pointedly slaps the folder down on his desk. Perhaps he should have cleared his throat as well, because despite sitting back in his chair with his hands on his thighs like a well-mannered, patient child, someone seems to have missed the memo._ _

__"Mm." Sherlock humms; for once, showing him a bit of mercy by refraining._ _

__"Small 'thank-you' wouldn't go amiss..." Mycroft informs the wall. Then the ceiling for good measure. Still, no-one is listening. His smile drops as an expressionless mask slips into place._ _

__"What for?" His brother sardonically inquires; shrugging a shoulder to drive home just how ungrateful he is._ _

__"For _weighing in,"_ Mycroft bites back, narrowing his gaze as he tips his chin down. Sherlock answer irks him, and his shoulders roll as a weight suddenly burdens them. He can feel them again- a weight, unlike anything he's accustomed to. A sort of pendulous feeling. He straightens his spine then arches it in an effort to shirk the sensation. _ _

__It is then that Sherlock sits up, and his burden overwhelms him; doubling in force._ _

___"He's in pain...."_ The voice whispers._ _

__"For wading in? You sat there watching me being beaten to a pulp!"_ _

___Ow!_ Mycroft frowns, very nearly allowing his mask to slip. He mustn't look saddened, thus he quickly re-arranges his expression to conceal his remorse. Switching it to one of misunderstanding. Meanwhile, something sanguine drips down his spine. _ _

__"I got you out!" He furrows his brow now. Perplexed._ _

__"I got me out! Why didn't you intervene sooner?"_ _

__Another trickle descends Mycroft's spine followed by a lance of pain as fine-edged and precise as though a scalpel itself has just incised the blade of his left shoulder. Now he cannot help himself. He looks remorseful- _is_ remorseful. For reasons he cannot fathom, and does not understand, it has only now occurred to him that he has hurt Sherlock. _ _

__Immediately he begins composing excuses to justify his behavior._ _

__"I couldn't risk giving myself away! That would've ruined everything!!" Not that everything went according to plan _afterwards,_ but up until that point Mycroft would have liked to have said that matters were well in hand and that he had been successful. _ _

__Sherlock tips his head; narrowing his eyes. He notices something. Something Mycroft isn't concealing well enough, or rather, isn't capable of concealing. "You were enjoying it," He accuses._ _

__"Nonsense," Mycroft tips his chin up, rolls his eyes towards the ceiling and purses his lips._ _

__Smirking, Sherlock noted the proverbial chink in his brother's armor, and deftly maneuvers to end their little argument by stating, " _Definitely,_ enjoying it..." Check, and mate. _ _

__Another drip and a feather worms its way out of Mycroft's skin; crumpling as it struggles forth like a caterpillar only to discover itself obstructed by the chrysalis of layers the man cloaks himself in._ _

__"Listen," Mycroft orders; sucking in a soft breath through his teeth as he leans forward and braces himself on his forearms. Now the shaft is bent and there's no forcing it backwards into his skin because the barbs of the plume are trying, but refusing at the same time, and all that it is managing to accomplish is to cause him just enough pain to speak candidly._ _

__"Do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock?" He asks. "Going "undercover". Smuggling my way into their ranks like that?" Unconsciously one of his brows lift; driving home his point._ _

__Sherlock looks down, and Mycroft realizes where he was incidentally headed. Quickly, he back peddles before he ends up confessing that for God's sakes! There's a _feather_ \- a whole _mess of feathers_ , threatening to burst forth in some...grand sort of heavenly display, or _something_ , to announce that he's died and been sent back to suffer caring for the single most ungrateful human being God ever deigned worthy of walking this planet. _ _

__Thankfully, he manages to reign himself in. "The noise! the people!!" He scoffs; reclining once more. Sherlock changes the subject._ _

__".....Didn't know you spoke Serbian" Sherlock winced._ _

__Biting his upper lip, Mycroft gently nurses the abraded spot with the tip of his tongue and rocks gently._ _

__"I didn't," He boasts. "But the language has a Slavic root," He fidgets; inspecting his nails. "Frequent Turkish and German loanwords," He informs his hand before looking up at his brother. "....Took me a couple of hours." Flashing his hand dismissively he purses his lips and tilts his head one way then the other, waiting for his brother to insult him because he knows it's coming._ _

__"You're slipping." Sherlock retorts._ _

__Mycroft smiles. "Middle-age brother mine. Comes to us all." Unless you die. Smugly smiling he presses his lips into a thin line._ _

__The door then opens, catching his attention. Anthea pokes her nose in, flashing Sherlock an appropriate change of clothes. Mycroft hopes his brother doesn't protest. He's endured enough already, and all without anyone learning that he's hiding a row of pin feathers beneath his own suit...._ _

__Thankfully, Sherlock refrains. Mostly. Mycroft begins pacing._ _

__"What do you think of this shirt?"_ _

__Turning, Mycroft brushes his suit jacket to the side and puts his hands on his hips; hoisting his chin. He's aggravated, and it shows; expressed in exasperated tone of his voice._ _

__"Sherlock!"_ _

__Anthea is beside him; pursing her lips. Habitually she raps her fingertips against her arm as though she's typing. The only difference is that it's a suit jacket that she is holding. Tucked beneath her arm is another file folder. Mycroft itches to reach for it. To distract himself._ _

__"...I'll find your terrorist cell, Mycroft, just put me back in London." His brother orders._ _

__Anthea looks tired, he observes. Unimpressed. She shifts her eyes to Mycroft, narrowing them a millimeter. Mycroft notices and averts his eyes, lifting his shoulders. He remains expressionless. In control._ _

__"One of our men died getting this information," Anthea states. Mycroft turns to look at her pushes his lips out, struggling to keep his expression emotionless after just having ordered it into place. Anxiously he rocks on his heels. Uncomfortable. Another feather pushes its way out; threatening to tear through the thin cotton of his shirt. Thankfully he wears a thick, brocade waistcoat. And a suit jacket._ _

__Still Mycroft looks down; sucking in his lower lip. He refuses to look at Sherlock, let alone Anthea. She's speaking again, but Mycroft isn't listening._ _

__"What about John Watson?" Sherlock inquires._ _

__Anthea looks concernedly at him._ _

__Shaking his head Mycroft wrenches his mind out of his thoughts. Anthea continues looking at him. Inspecting him. Critically. Quickly he replies, "John?" Furrowing his brow._ _

__"Have you seen him?" Sherlock asks. Lovely. Now his brother is looking at him as well. Mycroft bristles._ _

__"Oh yes! We meet up every Friday, for fish and chips," He replies cheekily. Rocking on his heels back and forth he cocks his chin; exuding arrogance._ _

__Sherlock rolls his eyes. Anthea averts hers._ _

__Puffing his chest out Mycroft pulls the fronts of his jacket together before lowering his hands to the side after flashing one of them dismissively. Thus far he's succeeding; no one suspects a thing. "I've kept a weathered eye, of course," He states._ _

__Anthea hands Sherlock the folder she's been clutching to her chest._ _

__Warily, Mycroft watches, "You haven't been in touch at all? To.... prepare him?" He asks. Unfortunately, he stutters. Anthea glances at him and he shakes his head; hoisting his chin as though nothing has happened at all._ _

__"No." Sherlock admits. Mycroft notes that his brother looks genuinely confused. Concerned._ _

__Mycroft watches with apprehension and shifts; shrugging a shoulder to relieve an itch. Cursed wings. Damnable feathers. Ridiculous non-death, death. And here he thought _living_ was tedious..._ _

__"I think I'll surprise John, he'll be delighted." Sherlock shrugs. He's ever so confident looking and Mycroft almost cannot bear to inform his brother just how wrong he is._ _

__"You think so?" He snidely replies; folding his arms across his chest and grinning. Almost. Then another feather needles him and he begins rocking lightly side to side as he hugs himself, hoping to suppress what is happening to him._ _

__"Pop into to Baker Street, who knows maybe jump out of a cake." Sherlock seems delighted. Anxious. Flippant, but excited. Flamboyantly he throws his arms in the air before dropping them and slapping his thighs. Mycroft feels an ache in his chest begin to spread slowly outwards. He wishes now, more than ever, that he had never been sent back._ _

__"Baker Street?" He asks; furrowing his brow. Sherlock is being ridiculous but he can't help but pity his brother. He knows John isn't there-hasn't been there since the day of his brother's funeral. Softly he confesses this.._ _

__"He Isn't there anymore..."_ _

__Sherlock suddenly look sad. Worried. His eyes plead with him. _Are you serious?_ They question before he articulates, "Why not?" _ _

__"Why would he be? It's been two years, he's got on with his life." Mycroft responds gently. He hopes that his brother appeals to the logical explanation he's offering, because at any moment he may decide in favor of the idea of fleeing the room. Sherlock still seems shocked. Disappointed. He deflates, no longer proud. Slowly he lowers his eyes to the floor, and Mycroft thinks he's done for right then and there._ _

__Just as quickly as he deflated however, his brother perks. The usual gleam in his eye, and snark in his tone returns nigh as quickly as it left. "What life?! I've been away.." He scoffs._ _

__Mycroft looks to the side, looks at the floor, lowers his lashes and rocks back after licking his lip. Next his brother will ask where he is, or where he will be, and again, Mycroft knows the answer but is unwilling to provide it._ _

__"How would I know..." He responds in a bored tone of voice. Correct as per usual. He so hates when people are predictable. Sherlock begins pacing around him and Mycroft has to clench his hands to his side to keep from writhing as he is inspected. It is then that he decides to answer him._ _

__Tipping his head towards his shoulder, he purses his lips and lifts his brows. "He has a dinner reservation and the Marylebone Road," Mycroft grins and lifts his eyes towards the ceiling innocently while his brother looks up to him._ _

__"Nice little spot," He comments. "They have a few bottles of the 2000’ Saint Emilion though I prefer the two-thousand-and-one." Or at least he used to. Before he died and food became an after thought._ _

__Sherlock comes to stand by his side; looking down to his left while Mycroft lifts his chin and looks up and to the right._ _

__"I think maybe I'll just drop by," Sherlock comments. Then he sucks his lips in. Bites them as though he's unsure._ _

__Mycroft looks down and sighs, feeling a weight descend upon his shoulders._ _

__"You know it is just possible that you won't be welcome," He responds; addressing the floor. Sherlock doesn't respond. Not initially. Slowly he turns to look at his brother who is open mouthed. His brow is furrowed together. For once, his mask has slipped and he looks genuinely upset by the information. Clearly he fails to understand and it pains him._ _

__Then, Sherlock sniffs. Shakes it off. Mycroft observes as his brother resurrects his walls._ _

__"There isnt." He dismisses and then lifts his eyes expectantly; trying to conceal a smile. "Now, where is it?" He grins._ _

__Just then Anthea rejoins them; holding his brother's Belstaff by the shoulders for Sherlock to step into. Both brothers smile at one another before Sherlock steps forward and slips into his coat._ _

__"Welcome back Mr. Holmes," Anthea says, glancing at him. Mycroft simply stares._ _

__Turning to look at him, Sherlock utters "Blud," lifting his eyes pointedly, before turning to leave the room. Mycroft knows he's thanking him, albeit in a roundabout manner. Using slang, how distasteful. He may as well have used an acronym._ _

__Mycroft turns to look open mouthed. Worried as ever, he sighs and his shoulders drop. Any moment now someone will be here to fetch him._ _

__"Out," He orders to Anthea; drifting back to his desk. Obediently she vacates the room, shutting the door behind her after stealing a glance over her shoulder. Mycroft is trailing his fingertips over the edge of his desk; frowning as he removes his suit jacket and begins work on the buttons of his waist coat. Any minute now. He licks his upper lip, sitting down in his chair. Any....minute...He shuts his eyes and leans forward; freeing the last button of his shirt before shrugging the soft cotton down over his shoulders, leaving him in only his undershirt._ _

__With a gasp, he sucks in a breath and permits his wings to unfurl. Flexing, they fan once before slowly lowering to fold around him as his head drops forward into his hands. Any. Minute._ _

__He waits, but no one ever shows._ _


	3. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New things are discovered. The "Goldfish" conversation takes place. Mycroft sleeps. Things are realized.

For two days Mycroft vacillated between seeing his brother and avoiding him. After viewing the grainy, pixelated image of his brother standing in front of a deli, clutching his nose on North Gower Street, he wasn't positive of what his reactions in physical form might be. To see him was to risk having his control slip, which was truly not in his best interest, but to avoid him meant that he was limited to what little CCTV footage he could manage to amass. Decidedly, he settled upon the latter. 

Curiously, he learned two things in that short time. One, that angelic beings didn't actually require sleep. And two, that Anthea was growing suspicious of him. 

While it wasn't uncommon of him to send an email, or two, ...or three, at 4:00AM when he ought to be sleeping, it _was_ rather dubious of him to send five, for more than two nights in a row. Such productivity was worrisome to state the least. 

When he actually did rest, he more or less fell into a sort of... stasis; wherein he recovered his energy, eyes open to the world around him. 

In those moments he forgot what it was to breathe normally. To be distracted by the necessary draw of oxygen into his lungs had always been a burden to him until now. Now, he could sit for hours in perfect peace. Despondent. Disconnected. 

With no heart rhythm to speak of, perfect silence was likewise achievable, and he savored it; withdrawing from the world whenever he was able. 

Late in the evening he often contemplated whether or not this was what it was like to be dead. They always said "Rest in Peace" at funerals. Perhaps this is what they meant. Rest, he wondered. What did that mean? According to the Oxford English Dictionary, rest was defined as a cease in work or movement in order to relax, sleep or recover energy. According to Mycroft Holmes, rest is what one did when one was so exhausted they were rendered useless, or worse, a detriment to society, or their profession. 

Thankfully, such petty inconveniences were beyond him now. Having shirked the mortal coil, the feeling that he had once been above such menial things became a reality. Apparently being angelic offered some perks, though the nigh constant urge to scratch at his back weren't among them. 

In public, he found himself almost constantly fighting the compulsion to unfurl his wings. All around him people were suffering. And in pain; they beckoned his secondary nature to reveal itself. 

Sadly, it wouldn't be until later that Mycroft would begin to realize the full extent of this burden. 

Three days after that fateful conversation in his office with his brother, Mycroft reluctantly returned to 221B. He told himself that by checking in, he was fulfilling his duties, and that subsequently, he would eventually be allowed to return to wherever it was he'd come from. 

He expected updates. Assurances. Comfort in the form of success. What he received however, was backlash and petty foolishness in the form of board games. Ultimately that too had devolved before digressing into a conversation about loneliness. _His_ loneliness none the less. Thankfully, he walked away unscathed by his brother's comments, but for some reason the word resonated. 

Lonely. To be alone. To want, or need for company. Mycroft failed to understand. Never had it occurred to him that he was indeed, very, very alone. And yet, his brother saw it. 

_“Plain as the nose on your face...."_ He recalled him saying. Mycroft had pursed his lips; frustrated that his brother wouldn't oblige him with the answer he so desperately sought. 

_"I'm not lonely, Sherlock..."_ He had replied; dumbfounded by his brother's accusation. 

_"How would you know.....?"_

Quickly, Mycroft had excused himself, blaming work as per usual, when in fact he simply needed an exit. Outside, he dismissed his driver in favor of walking to order his thoughts. Unbeknownst to Sherlock, Mycroft had walked away more than a touch wounded. He'd walked away confused. Hurt. And yes, lonely. 

That night, whilst lying in bed conscious, though simultaneously unconscious, he permitted his mind to let go. Carefully he began to consider his brother's words. 

Amidst dissecting them, a gentle weight burdened the foot of his bed. 

"Have you managed to conclude anything yet?" A voice inquired; tone as crisp as a breath of air at dawn's break. 

"No," Mycroft replied petulantly. "At least, nothing of importance...." He drawled; turning over onto his side. "....Tell me, when shall I be dismissed? What must I do to--" 

"You should be grateful, Mr. Holmes..." The voice interrupted. "Though I know you are not. In fact, I dare say you are the least grateful being I have ever encountered. Perhaps if you stopped fixating on it?" The archangel suggested; preening one of his massive, white wings. 

Mycroft scoffed; petulantly giving a kick to the sheets as he straightened a leg. 

"Prioritize." The archangel ordered. "You above all else know how to control yourself. Focus not on the gravity of what's been said to you, but on the words themselves. There are other's amongst you who know the meaning of them far more intimately than you can imagine. Seek them. Who knows? You might even develop a _friend…_ " He suggested wryly. 

Mycroft proceeded to sit up; fixing the archangel with a cold stare as his wings slowly lifted and flared; sending a button pinging across the room. "...I have my reasons for remaining unsociable," He retorted.

Arching a brow the archangel glanced at the wall before shifting his eyes to Mycroft. Clearly amused, though entirely unimpressed. 

"Yes. I am certain that you do, and I am likewise certain that you can argue them at length, but sadly, I am in no mood to argue this evening. I am only suggesting that you consider your brother's perspective. Perhaps then you will find some rest tonight. In the mean time," He paused before leaning up and over Mycroft; spreading his wings to corral the lesser being, " _Sleep._ " He whispered; touching Mycroft's brow. "You are beginning to worry those amongst you..." 

Folding his wings as he backed himself against the headboard, Mycroft scrunched his brow confusedly seconds before falling back into a mountain of pillows with a soft 'whumph'. Instantly, he was sound asleep as defined by human parameters, till dawn, when again he woke. 

Roused by the first tendrils of the rising sun warming his cheek, he arose conscious of what the archangel was insinuating the night before.

If he were ever to depart, he must not only attend to his responsibilities as a brother, he must also guarantee that those around him would do the same. 

Sherlock was different. Sherlock had friends, and his friends were what kept him safe. Not him. 

Despite his seemingly infinite capacity to mitigate the pitfalls of his brother's life, it was John Watson, Gregory Lestrade, Molly Hooper, and Martha Hudson that kept Sherlock alive. Now, he need only guarantee that they continue to do so. 

The following afternoon he scheduled an hour's free time for lunch. During which, he planned to intercept the first of his targets during _their_ lunch break, in order to ensure their cooperation. 

Little did Mycroft know that a certain Detective Inspector, by the name of Gregory Lestrade, would present a situation to him so perplexing, he might never choose see the man again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I wish to thank everyone. I especially appreciate the constructive criticism! My apologies that this chapter has taken so long, it was difficult to decide whether or not to include the conversation that is foreshadowed at the end of this part, and I needed to spend some time schem- er, plotting, some critical points. Thank you for your patience. -S


	4. How Would You Know?

12:00. Mycroft arrived; stepping out of one of the many non-descript black vehicles he had at his disposal to face the front of a small cafe. Having dealt with Mrs. Hudson the day before he felt assured that she would remain at his brother's side regardless of circumstance. Now, he need only guarantee that Detective Inspector Lestrade would do the same. According to CCTV footage, the D.I. should arrive within a quarter of an hour to retrieve his habitual order of half a sandwich slathered in mayonnaise accompanied by a packet of crisps, and a water. Hold the lemon. 

12:17. Twice Mycroft had checked his watch to ensure that he was not to blame for the delay. Despite it only having been two minutes past, he began to question whether or not the man he sought was ever going to show. Perhaps he should have sent Anthea to procure his target he thought. He'd done so often enough in the past that it shouldn't rouse suspicion, though he worried that with no real excuse to justify his meeting, she might begin to wonder. 

Eyeing a man slapping a carton of cigarettes against the meaty portion of his hand to his immediate left, Mycroft lifted his chin. 

"I don't suppose I might offer to purchase one of those from you, might I?" He inquired; conjuring a smile to his lips as the man drew a fag out and passed it to him. 

"Thank you," He graciously nodded; smiling gently as the man insisted 'no charge'. Withdrawing a silver lighter from the inner pocket of his waist coat, he extended the flame towards the man only to pull back and frown. Something about the man perturbed him. Leaning forwards again, black spotted his vision as the man likewise leaned in; chasing the flickering flame. When Mycroft looked at him then, he could see it. Tendrils of black wove through his lungs like cobwebs. Cancer. 

Awestruck, he rapidly blinked in an attempt to clear his vision before shaking his head. Impossible. He clenched his eyes tightly shut only to open them a moment later to no one standing at his side. Lighting the end of his own cigarette before pocketing the lighter, he took a long drag off the filter before tapping the end daintly with his forefinger. 

"According to your brother, those things'll kill you," Lestrade jibed in passing; catching Mycroft off his guard. Looking back, Mycroft exhaled over his shoulder before rolling his eyes. Dropping the cigarette he pointedly ground it into the concrete. "Indeed," He responded. "...They _may._ " 

Catching the door, Mycroft slipped into the cafe after Greg. That was rude, he thought; scowling as the man proceeded towards the counter to place his order before turning to claim a window-side table. 

"Inspector." Mycroft greeted as he sat himself opposite Greg. 

"Mr. Holmes...." Greg responded; not bothering to look up as he freed his napkin from the roll of cutlery. 

"My apologies. Am I intruding upon your lunch?" Mycroft snidely asked; folding his hands neatly in his lap. 

"Nope," Greg quickly replied. "Not at all. 'M still going to eat, and it's not as if this place isn't public, so you're welcome to do as you like I s'pose." He shrugged. 

Of course Greg would deprive him the satisfaction of having cornered his target....

"True," Mycroft uttered. "And yet, I note a twinge of irritation marring your words. Tell me, did you hope to strike up a conversation with the waitress? You've smiled at her frequently enough..." 

Greg frowned; dropping the charismatic smile he was in fact pitching at the approaching waitress. 

Mycroft lifted his hand dismissively; shooing her away after she delivered Lestrade's meal. Half a sandwich slathered in mayonnaise. Packet of crisps. Water. Hold the lemon. She'd even offered a smile of her own before turning on her heel and sashaying away. 

"What is it that you want?" Greg inquired after several moments being stared down while he ate. 

"The usual," Mycroft casually replied. "To converse." 

Greg piffled the thought as he set his glass aside. "What do you _really_ want, Mycroft?" 

"Just as I said. To converse. My, my... If I'd known you'd be so defensive-" 

"You, what? Might have sent what'shername? Anthea?? Your PA?? Honestly, Mycroft... I think I'd' prefer if you'd just phone me. Like usual." He smirked; resuming the consumption of his sandwich. 

"I thought, perhaps, that this particular occasion warranted a visit in person. You've seen my brother, have you not? I wish to know whether or not he shall, be welcomed back into the fold, per say." 

"You mean you came all this way to ask whether or not I've personally forgiven him?" Greg inquired; lifting his glass to rinse his mouth. 

"I suppose, put that way, I am. Yes. So? Have you??" Mycroft asked; lifting his brows hopefully. 

" 'Course I have," Greg swallowed; slamming his glass down with a bit too much force. 

Mycroft watched the water slosh before settling. Curiously, not a drop splashed over the edge. "Again with the defensiveness..." He chided, pursing his lips as he lightly shook his head. 

"It's just..." Greg sighed; deflating. In all honesty he didn't particularly know how to feel about Sherlock's return. Excited, because his friend was back and his department's solve rates were again about to skyrocket yet again? Angry because he'd been deceived?? ...Confused??

Folding his hands atop the table, Mycroft casually leaned forward, inclining his head inquisitively. Hostility rolled off of Greg; nauseating him. "Just?" He asked, waiting for the other man to conclude his response. 

"You are bitter." He finally answered when none came. "You resent the fact that you were misled- That you were forced to believe he was dead, and that you somehow contributed to his death. Such things are understandable. Though it _has_ been two years now..."

"I understand that it's been two years, Mycroft!" Greg snapped. "It's just...I just don't know what to do, alright? I mourned Sherlock. We _all_ mourned Sherlock, but now he's back, and I... I just can't believe it. He died what seems like ages ago and now he's just...He's _back._ Suddenly he's a part of our daily routine again, and yeah, I don't quite know how to handle it, so I am admittedly a bit on edge." He sighed. "...Hell, the whole department's on edge...No one knows exactly what to do. Donovan's _stil_ a bit pissed despite the fact that she's in another department. Anderson is gone-thank God, I don't even want to imagine what he'd be like to deal with at the present moment. And Dimmock has essentially piled this all in my lap. Can you believe he had the gall to tell me to 'deal with it' the other day? Honestly!" He snorted, "They finally clear his name, he comes back, and It's like everyone bloody abandons me!" 

Grumbling beneath his breath, Greg snatched the packet of crisps off the table and tore them open. Honestly, having Sherlock around again was good for him. It made him feel like he had something consistent again. With half his department gone, no one to go home to, and a notable absence of John in his life, who did he have? At least with Sherlock present in his life again, he possessed someone who needed him. Someone to call him up for a case, or be there when he was at wits end. Even if Sherlock didn't see it that way, at least there was someone. 

"You could have just as easily chosen not to forgive him," Mycroft remarked, sensing something foreign souring the air. "Had you done so, I would not have passed judgement upon you..." He stated; shifting his eyes to glance at the couple beside them before narrowing them as he again looked at Greg. Something was amiss. "...It is good though, that you have forgiven him. I am elated to receive such news. Truly, I suspected you might..." Trailing off he frowned. Deep in his chest an ache began to spread; slowly tearing a hole in him. It hurt, at least to a small degree. More so, it was distracting. Turning to eye the barista approaching them he shook his head. No. Anxiety trickled down his spine like a small shock of electricity, but still he couldn't exact the hollow feeling he was experiencing. Flashing his hand dismissively, he frowned and turned his attention back to Greg. "Express more reluctance." He concluded; planting his hand atop the table as he lowered it. 

"Yeah? Well...I didn't have much of choice, did I? It was that, or suffer." Greg shrugged; lowering his eyes to the table as he prodded his potato crisps around his plate.  
"Neither of you give people much of a choice..." He commented. 

"Kindly refrain from comparing me to my brother, Inspector." Mycroft replied coldly; lifting his hand to press the heel of it to his chest above his heart. "We are _nothing_ alike." 

Abruptly, Greg's head whipped up; noticing the gesture. "Are you alright?" He asked concernedly. "..You haven't eaten anything, and..." Gesturing vaguely towards Mycroft's hand he frowned; pointing out the fact that he was clutching his heart as though it were slightly disconcerting. 

"I am fine," Mycroft hastily replied; clenching his eyes shut tightly. Something felt as though it was gnawing at his chest. Clawing it apart. 

Greg's arm stretched to cover Mycroft's hand with his own, and Mycroft gasped loudly as his heart beat once beneath his ribs. Suddenly the pain was unbearable. 

"I'm calling an ambulance," Greg insisted as he dug into the inner pocket of his jacket to retrieve his mobile. Still he did not release Mycroft's hand. 

"No!" Mycroft squeaked.

"Yes!" Greg insisted emphatically. "For all I know you could be having a bloody heart attack!" 

"I am _not_ having a heart attack, Gregory Lestrade. I am--" He inhaled; surprised by the sudden need for oxygen after going without it for nearly two weeks. "I am merely experiencing.....heartburn. You were right in saying that I haven't eaten anything. This is the result." He assured Greg, pulling his hand away. Again he inhaled only to discover his lungs unwanting, while beneath his ribs, his heart fluttered once more before stilling; causing him to shudder at the sensation. Why his body had responded, he didn't know for certain, though several theories came to mind. He'd test them on Anthea later to ascertain more in hopes of drawing a conclusion. Till then, he refused to touch anyone. 

"Eat something," Greg uttered, drawing Mycroft's attention to a plate which appeared to have manifested before him. A third of a sandwich, several mutilated crisps, and a glob of dripped mayonnaise stared up at him. 

"I'm not hungry," Mycroft replied, pushing the plate back. 

"Eat. I insist." Greg retorted; initiating a war by shoving the plate back in front of Mycroft. 

"I said, I am not hungry..." Mycroft growled. 

" _Eat_. At least a crisp." Greg ordered. "I'll force feed it to you if I have to. Don't tempt me, because I _will._ " He threatened; selecting a crisp off the edge of the plate. 

"I mean it...." He jabbed the bit of potato at Mycroft. 

Leaning back, Mycroft pressed his lips into a firm line and shook his head much like a recalcitrant child. "No." He uttered. "In fact, if you'll excuse me, I really must be going." 

Pushing up off the edge of the table, Mycroft froze as Greg's hand closed around his wrist. 

"Please?" Lestrade plead; looking up at Mycroft benevolently as he extended a crisp towards him. Mycroft narrowed his eyes; glancing pointedly at his wrist. 

"I'll thank you to kindly remove your hand, Inspec--Mmmf!" 

"That'll teach you to shorten the use of your words." Greg chuckled. Withdrawing his hand, he sucked in a soft breath as the tips of his fingers were unintentionally kissed by Mycroft's lips. 

"Don't say I didn't warn you..." He smirked; releasing his hold on the other man's wrist while he chewed. 

Mycroft glared, clearly unamused. So much for not touching. Clearly he would have to amend that referendum to include not _being_ touched as well. 

"If you are now satisfied, I'll be taking my leave. Do enjoy what remains of your lunch." He nodded towards Greg's plate; turning for the door. "...Good day, Inspector." 

Outside, a car idled by the kerb, waiting for him to enter it. Beside it, a man likewise stood waiting. Dressed all in black, he opened the car door for Mycroft to step in before shutting it behind him. 

Safe inside the confines of the car, Mycroft cautiously placed two of his fingertips against his wrist. Nothing. He sighed; shaking his head. Still, a deep seated ache resided in his chest. A sort of hollow feeling, like someone had torn open his ribs and carved out his heart. 

Loneliness; so this was how it felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I simply wish to say thank you for the continued support. This was a particularly difficult chapter for me to write considering I do not write Greg often, let alone well. That being said, I am seeking a beta to assist with character development and general improvement of my writing. 
> 
> A special note of appreciation to Alexis, my dear friend who helped me write Greg's dialogue this chapter. Thank you. Were it not for you, I fear the stall I was experiencing may have been indefinite.


	5. Truth and Consequences

That afternoon Mycroft's hand wandered to his wrist several times to check that he hadn't mistakenly developed a pulse again. Had it not been for the pain associated with his heart suddenly restarting, he imagined that -like his wings, he could forget that the event had ever happened. Sadly however, that would mean forgetting Greg. Beneath his ribs his heart twitched. Twice he had touched his PA to see whether or not he could conjure a repeat performance of what had taken place that afternoon, and twice he was disappointed. What that implied, he didn't know, though it would appear as though it took some sort of severe longing, or desperation for his human side to present itself. It was that, or someone knew something he didn't and that was irritating. Silently he sent up a prayer that, that evening he would have a visitor to explain. 

It was also that afternoon, that John Watson was abducted. If anyone dare ask, Mycroft learned of this almost immediately though he did not, for the sake of his brother, personally involve himself. If properly questioned however, he _may_ admit to sending several of his men to mediate, although meddle was a more appropriate term, albeit an accusational, one...

In essence, Mycroft staged John's abduction. What happened thereafter was entirely not his fault...Shortly after being alerted that the planned situation was underway he checked the CCTV from in front of Baker St. That was when the panic set in. 

Though his heart did not race, Mycroft felt his biological systems overwhelmed by adrenaline. His eyes widened; his hands clenching as he straightened his spine and elevated his head. In sum, his body prepared itself for fight, or flight. Figuratively, because his wings remained firmly tucked in the ethereal, and to engage in a brawl was beneath him. Regardless, he truly appeared daunting as he sat behind his desk. 

It was then, that Anthea appeared; wisely stopping at the door rather than stupidly approaching Mycroft.. "Sir?" She inquired; hesitant to further enrage her boss as her eyes skimmed him from across the room. 

"We have a situation, Sir." She continued formally. "John Watson has already been abducted..." 

Mycroft's eyes widened a fraction of a centimeter more before narrowing acutely. "Excuse me?" He uttered calmly; his irises zeroing in like the crosshairs of a sniper scope set upon Anthea. 

"Magnussen." She uttered, exhaling a sigh that trembled off her lips. "What are you orders?" She inquired. 

Softly, Mycroft uttered one word. 

"Disengage." He instructed; turning his attention back to his laptop as Anthea turned on the point of her heel to vacate the room. The unspoken demand to leave evidently rang clearly in the wake of his orders though no such words left his lips. Plucking his mobile, off his desk, he deftly typed in the number of the man that he wished to reach before pressing the device to his ear. 

Some hours later, he watched as a motorcycle conveniently skidded to a stop in front of his brother and Ms. Morstan; awaiting interception just as Mycroft had planned. 

The situation was in order. Again he had seized the upper hand though fear still readily coursed through his veins. Charles Augustus Magnusen was not a man to be trifled with, and Mycroft knew better than to try and accuse him. Thus, predicting the consequences of attempting to do so, he set aside the matter, and focused his attentions on ensuring the safety of his brother's closest companion. If John Watson died, he would no doubt be tethered to this existence for an eternity, and that, simply would not do. Living was miserable enough to contemplate; living while trying to conceal the duality of his nature, was sure to be hell. 

Contemplating this, a feather light touch occurred to his shoulder. As soft as it was, the dysphoria that followed was overpowering. Gasping for air, Mycroft fell forwards and wrenched at his clothing. Though he did not need the oxygen he greedily sucked in, his chest heaved to inhale as much of it as he could. For some reason he felt claustrophobic; like something was squeezing his head. Likewise, he could feel something tight against the skin of his throat. Choking him. Flashes of red and blue blotted his vision; obscured by a whipping motion as his body lurched. On screen, the motorbike that Sherlock was piloting, abruptly turned down an alleyway. In the distance he thought he heard someone shout that he couldn't proceed where he was going. Where that might be, Mycroft had no idea. Suddenly, maps and times flooded his mind. ETA 5 minutes. Mycroft pressed his forehead against the edge of his desk; tugging at his hair as if to wrench the images from his skull. Fire, and crowds then replaced them before suddenly, everything stopped. Choking, he fought to scream. 

_"Oh, my God...."_

Smoke filled his lungs. Heat, and flame akin licking at his extremities. Someone was screaming. A little girl, Mycroft deduced. Her cries rang loud in his ear; refusing to trail off. 

"JOHN!" He cried out against his will. "John! John!" 

Hurriedly Anthea then burst through the door, phone forgotten on the desk she'd been leaning against seconds ago. 

"Sir?" She whispered, stepping into the room cautiously. Breathless, she watched as her boss panted for air; otherwise limp atop his desk. 

"Mycroft?" She asked again, stepping one foot nearer. Before her eyes the shadow of a pair of wings lifted from behind her boss' back; causing her to gasp in awe. 

"You were shouting... Did you need someone?? John Watson?? ....An ambulance?" She inquired; further approaching.

"John," Mycroft softly sighed; voice full of relief. 

"John Watson is safe. The situation has been salvaged. Your brother-" She paused; watching as the pair of wings she'd noticed folded. "Your brother saved him." She concluded with a sigh. 

"I think you should go home, sir...." She suggested. 

Slowly, Mycroft nodded. 

"...Are you certain that you do not need an ambulance??" 

Mycroft shook his head adamantly. 

"....I'll phone for a car then." She whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for keeping everyone waiting so long. This chapter took me forever to write, and I admit, I am still not quite satisfied with it. Still, I thank you all for being patient. I hope that you at least somewhat enjoy this.


	6. Empathy, Mr. Holmes.

That night Anthea joined him en route to his home. Though she remained silent for the duration of the drive, Mycroft could hear the questions she wished to ask as though they were screams pinpointed at his ears. For the better part he ignored them; choosing instead to stare vacantly out the window. 

Upon arriving home, he proceeded to slide his key into the door handle only to pause as a wave of remorse broke over him. At that same moment, Anthea stepped up beside him and twisted the handle to shove the door open, only to seconds later startle backwards and drop her Blackberry. All around them alarms were blaring while calm as ever, an archangel turned round to face them; barring the foyer with his outstretched wings. Wordlessly he encroached upon Anthea, bypassing Mycroft, who-like a statue, stood frozen on the doorstoop. 

"Go inside, Mycroft." The archangel ordered as he stooped to pluck Anthea's mobile off the cobblestones. "I'll be in, in a moment." 

Obediently Mycroft did as he was told. Albeit solely because he didn't know what else to do, not because he felt particularly compliant. Heading straight for his office he paused to detour towards the sideboard situated in the corner before drifting towards one of the ample wingbacks the room had to offer. A whiskey, he thought, might temper his thoughts. Not once since that afternoon had he felt at home in his own body, though at least the bombardment of images and emotions seemed to have diminished as the hour grew later. Never before had he felt so human. So fragile, and desperate. For a moment he was disgusted. Then he banished the thought by dunking his nose into the crystal glass clutched in his hand. 

Finishing one glass, he rose from his chair to pour another only to startle as a voice arose over his shoulder. 

"Empathy," The archangel uttered. "The ability to understand or feel the emotions of others...Others such as that man you encountered outside of that little cafe. Based upon your reactions I feel as though I can safely assume you've never felt how someone else has. Let alone _felt_ much of anything at all..." He postulated. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

"Tell me, did it unnerve you to see what you have? To know that he will soon be leaving this earth to join the fold as one of our kind?" 

"One of _our_ kind?" Mycroft scoffed. "Forgive me, but I have my doubts that, that man will be earning any sort of wings. Unless demons are given chiropteran appendages at their incarnation. In which case, my brother will be sorely pleased to hear that his efforts on this earth were not in vain..." 

"Mycroft Holmes!" The archangel scolded. "What place of yours is it to judge?! You, least of all ought to be donning a set of feathers, and yet-though you _insist_ on neglecting them, you do!" He huffed; shrugging his shoulders to soothe his feathers which had risen hotly like the fur of a cat.

"Neglecting them?" Mycroft replied cooly. "Tell me, what is it that you expect of me? Shall I preen them like a macaw? Flaunt them like a cockatoo?! Or shall I just flap them about; waving them whenever the mood strikes me?" 

"And you say your brother is prone to theatrics.." The archangel groaned in exasperation. "Just...The least you could do is keep them clean and orderly. Surely you can manage." He muttered; curling one of his own alabaster wings adoringly over his arm to demonstrate. "Oh, and by the way, were you to quote, un-quote flaunt them demonstratively, it's not like anyone would take notice. Presently only you and I can see them..." 

"Presently." Mycroft repeated. "As in, at this present moment. As in, at any point they may be inconveniently viewable by someone not you or I. Tell me, what else applies 'presently'?" He hummed. 

"Well...Wings aside, not much. I suppose you are seeking answers for the events of this afternoon. Regrettably, I cannot inform you of much, though I can explain why it is you vividly experienced Doctor Watson's kidnapping. In fact, I've already explained it to you. Empathy, Mycroft Holmes. The ability to understand or feel the emotions of others. In this instance, literally. Because of your involvement in Doctor Watson's abduction, or rather, the _conduction_ of it, it was put upon me to allow you the pleasure of experiencing the repercussions of that choice. As for the experiences concerning your brother, I will summarize. You are blood, ergo, you are connected. As such, you may connect with him at any point. I caution you however, not to do so often.” He forewarned. “Of course, he may also barricade you from doing so at any point. He is entitled to that, lest you thought otherwise." 

For a lengthy moment Mycroft was silent, and then he hummed. "What of Detective Inspector Lestrade then? Neither of those two situations applies to what took place in that cafe. Care to explain that?" 

“What exactly requires explanation?” The archangel replied, releasing a primary feather from his grasp and pinning Mycroft with a glare when he failed to elaborate. “I'm not omniscient, you know?” He huffed. 

Convinced that the archangel was playing dumb, Mycroft crossed the room glass in hand and proceeded to seat himself yet again.”Patience is not my forte’.” He then uttered; hoisting the whiskey to his lips. 

“Your Mr. Lestrade is a very lonely man,” The archangel commented offhandedly as he casually strolled across the room to stare out the window. 

“ _My_ Mr. Lestrade?” Mycroft repeated, “Forgive me but he isn't mine. Not by any stretch of the word. Or your imagination…” He muttered under his breath. 

“He is under your employ, is he not?” The archangel argued.

“No. He is not. He refused compensation from the beginning, ergo he has been operating as liaison and child minder of his own accord.”

“You're very adamant about this. I wonder, might you actually have a friend in this world after all?” 

“I have no use for friends.” Mycroft retorted. 

“Or emotions, am I correct? Such pesky little things. Irritating. Distracting. Like your feathers I imagine. They itch, and _crawl_ , burrowing under your skin. Stabbing you at the least opportune moment. Forcing your attention, twisting your thoughts, causing you to feel. They beg you to let them out, but that would mean you would have to first recognize them, and then accept them for what they are-- which you won’t, which makes this conversation pointless. I can make you empathize, but I cannot force you to feel, Mycroft. Only you can make that choice.” The archangel whispered in his ear; trailing his fingertips over the vane of a disheveled ebon feather. 

Jerking his wing away, Mycroft slammed his drink down and proceeded to grab a primary feather by the tip before jerking his arm. Smirking as the feather came off in his hands with a satisfying snap he bit his tongue and proceeded to reach further to clench his hand round a fist full of smaller feathers. 

“I have no use for emotions-no need to feel.” He practically growled, wrenching his arm. “I never have and I never--”

“On the contrary, you _did_. At one point you f--”

“Do not claim to know who I am! You have no basis upon which to stake such claims, and no right for that matter. You, in your… _ignorance_...have cursed me. Now you torment me--force me to empathize with others against my will, subject me to another’s emotions, and why? So that I might learn something from them?!” Rending another fist full of feathers from his left wing, Mycroft threw them at the archangel. “Caring is not an advantage, it is a weakness which you have demonstratively proved.” He snapped. 

“To care is human, Mycroft Holmes. To feel, to yearn, to struggle, that is the essence of humanity, and not even you are above that. Human beings are preordained to care, and like it or not, you still possess a glimmer of humanity. You made a choice today, a decision to impact the course of fate in hopes that you would be released from this world, and it backfired upon you. You failed, and the consequences were dire. John Watson very nearly lost his life, and still you show no remorse. Even after experiencing it fully, you _sit_ in front of this fire and _order_ me to answer your questions while pulling your feathers out. Have you had enough of that by the way?” He gestured at the pile of feathers Mycroft was steadily amassing around himself. “Does it hurt to do that?? Don't lie to me, I know it does…How does it feel? Painful? Satisfying?? Do you feel as though you are accomplishing something?” 

“Again I say, do not claim to know who I am, or the justifications behind what I do--” Growling low and threateningly as his wrist was snatched, Mycroft glared at the archangel and proceeded to fight valiantly for control of his arm. “I do care!” He blurted out. “I care more than you will ever know-- more than you can possibly fathom!! I beg you to release me from this… _existence_ , however you define it. I can assure you my departure from this world will make no difference.” 

“Oh, I know.” The archangel replied with a grin. “No one would dare attempt to accomplish the things you have if they didn't care. That isn't the problem though, Mycroft. You're insensate; shut off from this world. You see a problem and you resolve it- not with emotion, but with logic, which doesn't always work. You apply plasters to the world around you not realizing that the wounds you're covering are infected. If only you would allow your heart to rule once in awhile you might see that. You cannot fix your relationship with your brother by employing logic. Nor can you fix the problems of this nation. When you realize that, you will begin to notice the real problem with this world isn't that people are stupid, or that they make illogical choices, it is that people do not care about the consequences. Superficially, yes, perhaps, but deep down? No- or at least not often. They are selfish, gluttonous, judgmental, condescending, manipulative… They want and they take. And the few that aren’t-- those that cannot be categorized, fall to the wayside; ignored, rejected, or worse, taken advantage of; humiliated. Why you ask? Because they are different. Because they are humble, and selfless, and kind. They give until there is nothing left of them; till eventually, after enough degradation even _they_ bend before ultimately, breaking. This is why you do not permit yourself to feel, am I wrong? Tell me I am wrong, Mycroft Holmes. Tell me that you do not view such people as weak. Tell me that you do not think your dear Detective Inspector, or that your brother’s landlady does not fall into that indescribable category. Tell me that John Watson is weak.” 

Leaning forwards the archangel crouched to peer over Mycroft’s plucked shoulder. “Go on,” He urged. “Tell me so that I can tell you once and for all that you are wrong.” 

Done arguing, Mycroft bit his tongue and folded his wings into the ethereal before lifting his head to look at the being now standing in front of him.

“Truly those that embrace the experience of love- of pain, grief, fear, loss, of joy, and disappointment, hope and despair, are stronger-- nay, more capable of changing this world, than any man who dons a suit, constructs a wall, and applies logic to a world desperately in need of understanding…”

Trailing off the archangel studied Mycroft intently, who in turn studied the archangel back. To Mycroft’s dismay, angels emoted even less than him or his brother, and there was nothing to garner in the way of information from the being standing directly in front of him, wings folded gently against his spine. Thankfully, his mobile pinged, alerting him to an aptly timed distraction in the form of a text message. 

Reaching into the pocket of his jacket he extracted it slowly; flicking his gaze between the archangel and the device held in his palm before lifting the screen to eye level. 

_Just checking to ensure that you hadn’t actually succumb to a heart attack. Cheers, GL_

Narrowing his eyes at the screen, Mycroft lifted his head to pitch an accusatory glare at the being only to discover that said being had vanished. Begrudgingly, he then typed a response. 

_I am perfectly fine, thank you. Just as I told you earlier today. -MH_

He sent before setting his mobile on the arm of the chair and reaching for his glass. Again it pinged though this time it wasn't the sound that caught Mycroft’s attention, but the preemptive vibration of the device. 

_So… Freaked out. Insecure. Neurotic and Emotional? GL_  
Something must really be wrong. That doesn't sound like you at all. GL  
Except for perhaps the neurotic part, and maybe a little of the freaked out bit too because I'm texting you to see how you're doing and that's not something we typically do. I don't know. Just tell me you're okay, alright? GL 

_Fine then, I am okay. Are you satisfied now? -MH_

_Yes. Thank you. Goodnight, Mycroft. GL_

_Goodnight, Detective Inspector. -MH_ ,Mycroft belatedly typed back, recalling that hollow feeling that had nestled inside his chest after leaving the cafe. No doubt it was because of Lestrade. Damn empathy to the seven layers of hell. 

_Your Mr. Lestrade is a very lonely man…._

A very lonely man indeed. What time was it? 11PM, and he was texting him?? Probably because he was still at work, Mycroft thought. He could check the cameras to be sure but that would be a waste of time. These days Greg was always at work. Glancing at his mobile he flinched as he found himself caressing its rubber edge. Greg was a decent man. A _handsome_ man, Mycroft’s brain noted; arguing that he'd stared far too often for it not to be true. All silver hair and brown eyes. Eyes one could find themselves lost in if they weren't careful...Shifting his gaze towards the empty glass beside him he conceded he had drunk more than enough liquor for one evening, and picked up his mobile with every intention of taking it for a walk towards the wall for a charge. What he did not expect, was to fall gracelessly back into his chair the moment he attempted to stand. Fumbling, he dropped his phone as his legs wobbled and his head spun. In a swirl the world folded in upon itself and sprung apart before coalescing again slowly.. Licking his upper lip, Mycroft noted that he could taste copper, oak and aldehyde amongst notes of citrus, cinnamon, dried fruit, wood smoke and sherry. The depth of his senses were unbelievable, and his throat clenched at the mere thought of another sip. Never before could he pick out such subtleties, let alone taste them individually. 

From the floor his mobile yet again pinged. 

_Don't you think it's about time you called me Greg? I think so. GL_


End file.
